


Settling In

by Graculus



Series: The Plan A Affair [3]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Domestic, Multi, Pre-OT3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-08
Updated: 2015-12-08
Packaged: 2018-05-05 17:35:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5384384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Graculus/pseuds/Graculus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The view from the third side of the triangle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Settling In

They made such a ridiculous pair, the two of them. One all _savoir-faire_ and expensive suits, the other alternating between making cow eyes at people and looming over them like he couldn't make up his mind what kind of person he wanted to be. 

She'd seen the way they both looked at her, since she would have to have been blind not to notice it. At least Solo was more subtle about it, his glances in her direction holding more of the weight of a conoisseur's inspection of something before he decided if it was worth his time. And Illya, lovely naïve Illya had all the subtlety of a bull at a gate, and his little looks when he thought she wasn't aware were so lovely and innocent. Gaby wondered if Illya had ever been in love before, if he realised now he was falling for both of them even though he'd probably deny the idea till his very last breath. 

Still if she wasn't going to grow old waiting for them to get their heads in the game, Gaby knew she was probably going to have to do something about it, about both men, together and separately. If she was clever about it, clever enough for both of them, then she could have it all without any difficulty - she'd not only seen the way they looked at her, she'd observed the looks they gave each other as well. 

Solo, she decided, would be relatively easy prey. If her ambition had been just to get him into bed, that was, not for anything more substantial than that - a fleeting encounter would be childs play to arrange but that would be the extent of it. And if she let Solo have his way under those circumstances, nothing permanent would ever come to pass between any of them, because that wasn't how he was built. Or at least, that was what he'd like to think, the way he'd trained himself to be since the war, or maybe since the CIA got hold of him and thoroughly spoiled him for dealing with human beings. 

No, she would have to start with Illya, like she'd told Solo to do as well. Another reason why he had to be first, because he'd see her becoming more intimate with Solo and back away as fast as he could, not wanting to jeopardise their working relationships by the things he felt, the things he would insist on telling himself he _couldn't_ feel for either of them now Gaby and Solo were involved. It was so hopelessly bourgeois, despite all his years in the Soviet Union, that Illya would swallow whole this idea of one man and one woman and accept that was all there could ever be. 

Meanwhile Gaby was determined to do exactly as she liked, though she knew that the penalties for trying and failing where these kind of things were concerned was often severe; she was equally certain, if the three of them put their minds to it, to making this odd relationship between them work, then they wouldn't fail. 

She'd seen the first signs Illya wouldn't be a pushover when he'd balked at Solo's plan for them all to live in the same building. It didn't make much difference to her where she lived, as long as she had everything she needed - this side of the Iron Curtain, pretty much anything was a step up and she'd have happily lived in a place Solo would declare fit only for rats and pigeons without a second thought. Illya, it seemed, had a different list of ideas about what he wouldn't tolerate and that list apparently started and finished with Solo living in the same building. 

Not that Solo had done himself any favours, as he could quite easily have talked Illya round in time, if he'd only taken a less direct approach. There might be people Illya would tolerate telling him what to do, but the day when Napoleon Solo was one of them was far in the future, if it was ever going to exist. And while Gaby was certain that wasn't what Solo intended, she could equally see just how Illya had interpreted it that way. 

"Nice place," Gaby said, letting herself in to Illya's apartment. She'd been practicing her lockpicking and the door to his rooms didn't pose much of a challenge, not any more. "Do the roaches sub-let or are they just visiting?"

She'd heard at length from Solo about his concerns for Illya, that he'd end up living somewhere barely fit for an animal, that his tolerance for cold-water flats should have stopped the moment he crossed from East Berlin and not travelled with him to the decadent West. A quick glance around Illya's apartment seemed to support most of Solo's concerns - she wasn't an expert on how people lived in the US, but this certainly seemed considerably more Spartan than most places she'd seen, either on television or in the movies. 

"I work much," Illya said, "so does not matter what apartment is like." He didn't look particularly comfortable, despite the casual way he spoke, and the way he shifted on the stained couch where he was sitting made Gaby wonder if his movement was due to unexpected springs or something more mobile. "I am not Solo with his fancy furniture."

"No," Gaby agreed, deciding that her safest bet was one of the wooden chairs which had apparently come with a dining table which had seen better days itself. Not much could survive on wood, at least not without being seen. "I can see you definitely are not."

"Why are you here?" Illya asked, after she didn't say anything more, just sat there and carried on looking around his apartment, even though there really wasn't all that much for her to look at. "Do not try to persuade me to do what Solo said."

As if she'd waste her breath on trying to shift his opinion on that particular subject, even though the idea she'd had about seducing Illya had shrivelled a little when she'd realised just what that might entail. Not in terms of the company, since Illya was still the same man, regardless of his surroundings, but in terms of a certain lack of ambiance that Gaby had never previously valued enough. This place, this rat trap, had all the ambiance of a back alley and most of the smell. 

Getting up from her chair, Gaby wandered over to the window - as she'd suspected, it was nailed shut, the nails painted over, though the view of a row of dumpsters left much to be desired. 

"Well," she began, turning around and leaning back against the windowsill, "I did come here to try and persuade you of something." Gaby saw the way Illya looked at her, the expression of surprise chased by suspicion that flicked across his face almost too fast for anyone else to see. She was getting better at reading him, that much was certain. "Why don't you come back to my place, so we can discuss things further?"

"What are these 'things'?" Illya asked, a little impatiently. He shifted again on the couch. Definitely a spring poking through in the wrong place, Gaby decided; it was either that or he was getting an erection and she hadn't made sufficient effort for that to be too likely. "We can discuss here what you want to say."

"Illya, your apartment is appalling," Gaby said, though she hadn't meant to be quite that blunt. "Surely UNCLE are paying you enough to get somewhere that isn't a health hazard?" 

"Is complicated," Illya said, getting up from the couch. She'd made him uncomfortable, even more than that ratty couch, Gaby could see that now. "I have... commitments."

Even as he said the words, it all made sense. He was sending the bulk of his money back to the Soviet Union, either directly to his mother - though Gaby had no idea how he was managing to do it, given the KGB's interest in their family - or using it to make life a little easier for his father in the gulag. Possibly both, if the state of this place said anything about the amount of rent he was paying, since US dollars would go a long way the other side of the Iron Curtain. That also explained some of Illya's reluctance to go along with Napoleon's proposal, since he could never have afforded to send money home _and_ pay the rent in a place like Napoleon's building; UNCLE just weren't that generous. 

"I have an idea," Gaby said. It probably wasn't a good one, all things considered, but she couldn't let Illya keep living like this. "My apartment has a spare bedroom, you should move in with me." Illya opened his mouth, clearly about to make any one of a dozen objections to this, but she didn't let him start on his list. "It'll be easy enough, you can pay me whatever you're paying for this rathole."

And that'll work perfectly for the next step of my plan as well, Gaby thought. If she could just get Illya in her own territory, one way or another, pretty soon she'd be staking a claim in more ways than one.

"Get your things," she continued, walking over to where Illya stood. He was staring at her as if she'd grown a second head, that wasn't good. She grabbed his sleeve, pulling him towards what she assumed was the bedroom door, though Gaby wasn't all that keen on seeing what any bedroom attached to this kind of place might look like. "I mean it, you're not staying here, even if I have to call UNCLE headquarters for a truck to move your stuff."

Not that he had enough to make that necessary, Gaby realised, as she looked around the living room again when Illya had done as she'd said and disappeared into the bedroom. There were a few books, a record player and a few records, a chess set and then whatever clothes he had - from what Gaby had seen of Illya's wardrobe over the past few missions, that wouldn't take much moving - a cab would probably be sufficient, if she was any judge. 

A few minutes later, after she had gone in search of Illya and found him staring bleakly into the meagre contents of his wardrobe, Gaby had him packed up and ready to go. 

"Is that everything?" she asked, as he opened the apartment door. She hoped so, since Gaby very much wanted to burn the clothes she was currently wearing, in case they carried the smell of this place away with her, and the thought of either of them coming back here again made her feel a little desperate. 

"I do not have much," Illya admitted. "More last time, but what is point?"

"Last time?" Gaby asked, leading the way down the stairs. "You've lived in New York before?"

"Seven years ago," Illya said, as he followed her. "I was in New York six months, then I am back to Moscow. Was very quick."

Gaby tried to imagine what that was like. Of course, Illya had been working for the KGB all that time, probably attached to the consulate, so he wasn't trying to put down roots in a new place, like she was. Except she wasn't really, was she? Given her relationship with UNCLE and the uncertainty of it all, the only thing she _could_ be certain of was that she wasn't going back to East Berlin. Beyond that, she hoped she would have some say in where she did end up in the longer term, but would just be happy to remain this side of the Iron Curtain for good. 

"And you had to leave your stuff behind?" she asked. Illya nodded. No wonder he wasn't particularly making a home for himself here, if there was still that nagging doubt in his mind that it could all go away so quickly once again. "I'm sure Waverly wouldn't let that happen again."

That didn't seem to particularly reassure Illya, though Gaby had hoped it would. Maybe she had too much faith in Waverly and his ability to get his own way where other countries' governments were concerned? 

"Maybe you are right," Illya said, as she let the building door close behind the two of them. Hopefully for the last time, since there was no reason Gaby could see why Illya would ever have to come back here. "Is possible."

That was probably the best she was going to get, Gaby realised, so she decided to change the subject. 

"Can you cook at all?" she asked, putting down the box she had been holding and stepping into the street to hail a cab. Gaby had discovered early on that she had a very high success rate when it came to getting cabs to stop for her, and she intended to use and abuse that fact for the benefit of both of them. She would certainly have more luck, she expected, than a large and surly-looking Russian. "Because I've been living on takeout and it's not as much fun as it sounds."

It really wasn't. If the way to a man's heart was really through his stomach, Gaby knew she had little chance of winning either Illya or Napoleon that way, given her lack of skills in the kitchen. She was, however, extremely good at ordering in. 

"I am..." Illya seemed to be searching for the right word. "Okay." 

That didn't sound too promising, Gaby thought. 

"Maybe you just need more practice," she said, instead, trying to remain positive. Gaby was certain she had already accomplished one miracle, in getting Illya to go along with what she wanted, so why not aim for another one and hope for an accomplished cook? "That's probably what it is."

Illya didn't look convinced. He was saved from responding, however, as a cab sailed to the curb beside them and the two of them got in, complete with the entirety of Illya's belongings.

\---------------

The next morning, Gaby left the apartment while Illya was still asleep - she wondered, given how deeply he appeared to be sleeping even though it was not that early, how much sleep he'd got in that awful apartment. If nothing else, it was a sign of approval where the bed was concerned, even if Gaby was determined to see that he didn't spend too much time occupying it on his own. Or they could just share hers, that was equally acceptable.

She was partway through regaling the secretarial staff with a description of the place, though she hadn't quite got to the part about how Illya had moved in, when Napoleon arrived at the office. He had clearly heard enough before Gaby had known he was there in order to guess the subject of the conversation and was lurking just inside the doorway, a small smirk firmly in place. Aware of his presence, especially as the eyes of certain staff members kept flicking in his direction while they probably thought they were being quite subtle about it, Gaby brought her story to a premature conclusion. 

"Anyway," she continued, deciding it was time to strike a blow for her plan. "I just wanted to check who it was I needed to inform about change of address."

"For you or for Illya?" one of the secretaries asked, clearly trying to make sense of the story Gaby had just been telling and the apparent non sequitur of the following statement. 

"Illya, of course," Gaby replied. "Since he's moved in with me."

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Napoleon stiffen and the smirk drop from his face. Before she could say anything else, he'd turned on his heel and disappeared back into the corridor - from the direction he was heading, Gaby assumed he was going to his office but she didn't want to let him get too much of a headstart in case that wasn't his plan. She had no intention of chasing Napoleon round headquarters and turning up red-faced wherever it was he ended up.

"I'll tell you more later," Gaby said, heading for the door as quickly as she could manage and ignoring the disappointed expressions of the secretaries.

"There's a form," one of them said, as she reached the doorway. Gaby left the room just as Napoleon disappeared round the corner, definitely *not* heading towards his office - the place was a veritable rabbit warren, Gaby had discovered, and if she lost him now then she might not find him for hours. "For the address change." The words followed her out into the corridor.

"Thank you," she said, loudly, and let the door slide closed behind her.

\---------------

It wasn't quite hours, but it did take Gaby some time to track Napoleon down. In the end, she found him in one of the spare offices, where he was pretending to work on paperwork. Not that there was anything outstanding, as far as Gaby knew, since they'd only just come back from a mission a few days earlier and the relevant report to Waverly had already been submitted.

"I'm busy," Napoleon said, glancing up at her and then turning his attention back to the paperwork as if that would make Gaby disappear. "Now run off home to your boyfriend."

Gaby grinned. She'd suspected that getting Illya to move in with her would light a fire under Napoleon but she hadn't expected such overt jealousy - she'd had him figured for the occasional sarcastic comment, nothing that could be directly considered criticism of their current living arrangements, but stuff he could explain away if she lost her temper with him. That way Gaby would be the one in the wrong, not him. 

"Jealous, Napoleon?" she asked, coming over and leaning on the side of the desk. This close, she could see that what he'd written was pretty much rubbish, a bunch of scribbles that made no sense with a lot of crossing out. "Or worried you missed your chance?"

If she hadn't met him before, the look Napoleon gave her then would have worried her. It was the look of a man who was very near the edge, a cold and assessing look that stripped her to the bone. 

"I am worried," he said, "that you have just provided me with compelling evidence to say you are untrustworthy and decidedly _not_ someone I can rely on in the field." He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. "You led me on, Miss Teller. And not in a good way."

This was a little more intense than Gaby was expecting and not quite what she had expected from Napoleon in response to her plan. She'd thought he'd be jealous, that he might be annoyed that she had got Illya to do something he couldn't, but this kind of cold fury was just a little outside of what she'd bargained for. 

"I'm sorry you feel that way," Gaby said, trying her best to stay calm and not respond in kind to the anger she was certain boiled just beneath that expensive suit. Both of them losing their cool wouldn't help the situation at all. "But I stand by what I said before. About Illya."

"Even now he's sharing your bed?" Napoleon shook his head. "That's quite a statement."

"He's not." Time to put a stop to this nonsense before things spiralled out of control completely. "I have a spare room, he was living in a place that made East Berlin look luxurious and you were right, he deserved better than that." 

For a moment, she wasn't sure if her words had even gone in, because at first Napoleon's expression didn't change at all. 

"Was it really that bad?" he asked, after a long minute's silence had passed. "And how did you get him to go along with it?" 

Gaby let out a breath, seeing the way Napoleon visibly relaxed at last - he'd gone straight for the jugular when necessary, that much was true, but she understood why he'd done it and wondered if her own response would have been much different if their roles had been reversed. Now he just looked curious - still wary, as if he expected her to pull the rug from under his feet at any moment, which was always a possibility - but much less angry than he had just moments before. 

"He knows when he's beaten," Gaby said, "which is more than I can say for you." She looked Napoleon up and down, frowning when he looked away. "One minor detour and you're all over the place - trust me, I know what I'm doing."

"Do I have a choice?" Napoleon asked, frowning. "But you're right, I was jealous. Still am, if it comes to that."

"You have nothing to be jealous of," Gaby said. "I'd tell you if that wasn't the case, you know that."

This was getting a little infuriating, Gaby thought, but it also told her more than she had ever thought to wonder about Napoleon Solo and how his mind worked. She'd thought, on first meeting him, that he was just another insufferable Westerner, too much in love with himself to be any use to anyone. Except that, as soon as you scratched the surface, what you found was someone who was just as insecure as everyone else Gaby had ever known - nothing special, just wrapped up prettier than most, in expensive suits and nice manners. 

"You know," Solo said, "I believe you would."

"This way, I can work on him." Gaby thought about it for a moment, searching for the right expression. "Soften him up, get him used to the idea of someone giving a damn about him and then, when he's ready to accept the idea, you can pounce."

She found she was grinning, the mental image was so amusing. Napoleon didn't look quite as pleased with being compared to a cat as she had expected, but that was his problem. It was a good analogy; he was fastidious, picky about who he associated with and utterly single-minded when it came to doing as he pleased.

\---------------

In some ways, Gaby wasn't surprised to find that there was a lovely smell of cooking food wafting through her apartment when she opened the door. She'd hoped, of course, that this would happen and would happily admit to anyone that it had been part of her hopes for living with Illya that he would take it on himself to cook, even if only occasionally. Still, it had been a gamble, leaving him behind while she went into UNCLE headquarters on her own; it seemed, however, that this particular gamble had paid off.

"What's that smell?" she asked, heading into the kitchen. Illya was sitting at the small table, apparently engrossed in an academic journal if the size of the publication and miniscule print was anything to go by, but something was clearly cooking regardless. "Illya, did you lie about how good you are as a cook?"

He looked up, seemingly unaware of her presence until she spoke, which Gaby hoped was a sign of how much he already felt at home. That, or the contents of the journal had numbed his brain to any other sensation, but it was probably the former. He wasn't wearing a jacket but still had his holster on, pistol hanging against his side.

"That smell," Illya said, "is _bigos_." He glanced at his watch. "Is ready soon."

"How soon?" Gaby said, as her stomach rumbled an accompaniment to her question. "It smells wonderful." She looked at the bubbling pot from which the smells were emerging and wondered if Illya would let her try some before it was technically ready. Where could be the harm in that? "What is this ' _bigos_ ' anyway?"

"Is Polish stew, my grandmother made it when I was child," Illya said, turning over the corner of the page he was reading and closing the journal, clearly reluctant but still willing to accommodate Gaby and her questions. "Is meat and cabbage." 

He got up from the chair, crossing over to the stove, then lifted the lid of the large pot that was bubbling away. Steam wafted from it, delicious smells as well even though Gaby had never been a lover of cabbage. However, for this she would probably make an exception. 

She was about to ask where Illya had bought the ingredients when there was a knock on her apartment door. Illya immediately pulled out his gun, thumbing off the safety as he cocked an eyebrow at Gaby in enquiry.

"No idea," Gaby said, quietly. Another knock, this one sounding a little more impatient. "Who is it?" she called out, wondering if an assassin would actually say so.

"A hungry visitor." Illya's thumb returned the safety to its former position, then he holstered the gun and crossed to the door, letting Napoleon in. "Don't look so sour, Peril," he continued, "I brought a house-warming present." From a brown paper bag, Napoleon produced a bottle of vodka - not the easiest thing to come by at short notice, even in New York - and waved it under Illya's nose as if tempting him with it. "Gaby already got her own present when _she_ moved in, so I thought I needed to mark this occasion too."

Illya shut the apartment door behind him, the bottle of vodka in one hand, as Napoleon made himself thoroughly at home - his coat and jacket were soon hanging up and he was sprawled out on the couch. Gaby grinned to herself at the continuing aptness of the cat analogy where Napoleon was concerned: he was clearly making it known that both she and Illya were part of what he perceived as his territory, like it or not. Maybe he was listening to her after all. 

"Illya made dinner," Gaby said, coming over to where Illya still stood, halfway between the apartment door and the kitchen. "I'm sure there's enough for three."


End file.
